


Trials By Talon: Junkrat's Titillating Tales

by Jinjo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Casual Sex, Comedy, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, F/M, Fantasizing, Fucking Machines, Hand Jobs, Human Experimentation, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Power Bottom, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:54:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28710042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinjo/pseuds/Jinjo
Summary: Junkrat is down for anything and itching to get laid. Surprisingly, he gets more than he bargained for when making a sweeping proposition to the agents of Talon.--A series of short, silly and sexy misadventures. Hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Doomfist: The Successor | Akande Ogundimu/Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes, Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Everyone, Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Moira O'Deorain, Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Roadhog | Mako Rutledge, Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Roadhog | Mako Rutledge/Sigma | Siebren de Kuiper, Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Sombra | Olivia Colomar, Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Sombra | Olivia Colomar/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	1. The Epiphany

“Hey. ‘Hog. Hey.”

…

“Hoggie.”

A knobby elbow poked and prodded at the great mound of blankets that huffed and shifted under the pressure. Unrelenting and after a few more attempts, the unwelcome intrusion was followed by the sudden appearance of the clambering, half-nude form of Junkrat crawling over top of Roadhog’s semi-conscious form.

“‘Hog! Buddy. Can’t sleep. This place is fuckin’ freezing, mate! Move over…”

Roadhog cracked an eyelid open, blearily taking in the view. Junkrat was already in the process of burrowing, navigating Roadhog and the blankets without the use of his prosthesis and jostling and squishing around his form with the grace of someone with the moniker “Junkrat” would imply. 

He grunted, eyes rolling over to the clock on his side-table. Just past midnight and they’d just set off to bed; Junkrat had barely made it a half an hour in their new living accommodations. When they had partnered with Talon, Roadhog had been weary of shedding their nomadic ways, even if temporarily. Their lifestyle was raucous, loud, brash. The smells of gasoline, fire, and burning rubber had begun to fade from the forefront of his daily consciousness. Talon was cold, precise, and sterile. As Junkrat settled (with some help from Roadhog’s large hands scooting his pointy joints into place), he rested his chin for a moment on Junkrat’s head and took a whiff. Yep: grease, dirt, oil, smoke. No amount of showering could strip him of his telltale stink. It alone was a comfort - and at least a good distraction from the oppressive quiet of the Talon dormitories.

Until he fuzzed back awake to the familiar sensation of Junkrat’s flat, bony ass rubbing against his crotch.

“What are you doing.” He huffed, the husky growl of his voice dangerously low. It wasn’t so much a question as a demand. Immediately, Roadhog’s hand wrapped around Junkrat’s shoulder to stop him, jerking the smaller man forward with a start.

“Ah! Shit!” Junkrat flailed, affronted. "Just horny 's all--"

“Seriously?” Came the grunted response. Roadhog’s jaw tightened, keeping down the heat that Junkrat had stirred up in his belly. Junkrat was desperate now.

“C’mon, mate,” He pleaded - there was actual panic in Junkrat’s wild orange eyes, “I haven’t gotten any since that desperation handy!”

He was met with a deadpan stare. The aforementioned incident was admittedly weeks ago in Cairo - a miserable desert trudge to civilization without a drop of gas in the tank. The deal was five hours of silence for one handjob. Junkrat only made it three-and-a-half, but it worked itself out to be a better deal for Roadhog in the end.

“Please?”

Roadhog rolled his eyes and turned over. In an incredible show of tactics and power, the goliath man pulled all of the covers in such a way that his companion was left - shunned - in the cold.

“No. Tired. Go fuck someone else.”

A frustrated screech emitted, but the giant-sized bundle of blankets was unmoved. Junkrat clawed at the impenetrable pile with his one hand, moaning in despair.

“Is it too much to ask, Hoggie? For some familiar cock and balls?”

He writhed, scraping pathetically down the side of the blanket and watched the plush fabric pile up under his dirty fingernails. He traced little sad faces in the drag marks.

“I bet these Talon drongos are all freaks. You see how they dress. Needles and foot fetishes, the lot of them.”

Junkrat added little clown noses to the sad faces.

“What do you think Reaper’s got goin’ down there? Tentacles? Do you think they do each other? I bet they do. Do you think they’re repressed? Hmmm… Maybe I could work with that, ‘Hog--”

Gentle grunting snores began to bubble up from Roadhog’s blanket pile, but Junkrat was on a tear.

“Oh, fuck me, Hoggie. What if I’m missin’ out on somethin’ good here? They’ve gotta be all pent up in here, waiting for some sexy junker to come in from the cold and light things up a bit, yeah? I bet I still got it, yeah… Yeah, ol’ Jamison Fawkes can spice things up a bit, right ‘Hog?”

He patted the enormous lump, eliciting a snort. Roadhog mumbled. “Don’t jack off next to me.”

“Right. Well, see you tomorrow, buddy! If you need me -- I’ll be in my bunk.”

And with that, Junkrat swaggered off to take care of business.


	2. Junkrat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riled up and ready to go, Junkrat returns to his bunk for a quick "planning" session.

First off, Junkrat’s machinations would require inspiration. A great plan was in the works, and a bit of imagination and visualization was important to the planning process.

It hardly took him a moment of getting settled back in his own bunk before Junkrat spurred himself back into action, giving his own flagging dick a squeeze through his pants with fluttery anticipation. He propped himself up with his stump arm, tugging down his clothes with his hand and releasing himself with a sigh of relief. The junker wiggled into position in his bunk, letting out a shaky breath and allowing his eyelids to slip closed.

Now, where would he even begin? There were so many options.

For whatever reason - probably his tentacle comment - Reaper materialized first. Junkrat internally shrugged to himself as he grasped himself in his hand and stroked, imagining what was under the cloak: or not. Pushed up against a suitably dark and brooding alley, exposed and dragged up and down with each thrust against cold, damp bricks. Those leather gloves, straining and tightening on his shoulders as he pressed him deeper, more painfully into the dirty alley. Breathing black smoke, and -- something, something, what was that smoke? Focus, Junkrat!

He shook his head away from the distraction of ghostly logistics and moaned, feeling the first drip of pre-cum on his fingertips. He tugged and arched his back, squeezing his eyes to clear his head once again.

Agents Widowmaker and Sombra were quite the pair; would they treat him to a ménage à trois? He would hardly know what to do with himself, between those two. Squeezing and fondling those plump and perky breasts, taking in mouthfuls at a time between tugging their nipples and toying them into hardness. Between them he would have Sombra - no, Widowmaker - between his legs, her slender fingers running up and down the base of his cock as she positioned herself on top of him… Then sinking down all at once, forcing him all the way inside of her as she looked at him, gasping, but still with those cold eyes. Her slowly, mechanically riding him, clenching his cock inside of her. Sombra would hover over his face, her sharp nails tugging his hair, scraping his scalp, drowning him in her warm pussy. She would grind, her clit up tight against his tongue, only releasing him to spasm out gasps as Widowmaker milked him into ecstatic oblivion -- Oh!! Oh!

Junkrat clamped down hard, hissing through his teeth. “Phew, heheh… That was close…” He was pulsing with heat, nearly climaxing. As he looked down at his hand, one eye open, he looked down at his twitching cock and nearly came again on the spot. “Fuck…”

Okay, time to calm down and chill out. Who wasn’t as sexy?

Sigma maybe. What was his deal? Junkrat imagined him, looking at the disgraced doctor in a curious light. He had the long, imposing physique of someone who could destroy him if he wanted to, but his mumblings about mathematics and music theory, his occasional softness and quiet enthusiasm were baffling. As the question marks seemed to materialize in his mental space, Junkrat felt himself cooling off. And he began to disrobe the good doctor in his mind. He wouldn’t mind seeing that junk. Yeah, that would do.

Speaking of doctors, he could start ramping things back up with Moira. That frigid stare that belied some curiosity and cruelty underneath. Junkrat knew that Roadhog might be dangerous if he were to get some of that tail - he saw her raking her claws down his back, ‘Hog shuddering in pain and pleasure. Clamping down on his mask, making him squeal. Roadhog would be a real horndog after that, and Junkrat would happily play sloppy seconds. Pinned under his stomach, taken for a ride as Roadhog thrust against whatever he could find, groaning and rattling with a desperate need for release. The easily and enthusiastically obliging junker would wrap his hand around that good ol’ faithful cock and give everything he had. As he dragged his tongue and teeth across his junker companion’s gut, he would find himself teasing blindly - eventually landing on one of Roadhog’s nipple piercings and making him roar with lust.

It took everything in his power to get Junkrat’s mind off of his constant companion, but he felt himself too close not to finish on a more explorative note. Doomfist might be the next most likely candidate to make him be unable to sit properly the day after. After a steamy bout of training, Junkrat could practically taste the salty tang of sweat off of Doomfist’s abs, tracing his way down to that impressive member that was unbelievably hard. He wouldn’t have much time to examine, to probe it with his lips and tongue before their leader would grip him by the head and tug him straight onto his cock - causing him to spit and gag before relaxing in shuddering compliance. Junkrat wasn’t one to take orders from anyone but Roadhog, but there was something about Doomfist’s voice that redirected all of his energy from his brain straight to his dick. The low, commanding timbre and harsh single word commands had him on his knees, a rock-hard cock sliding into the back of his throat with expert force. He imagined the purring comment from his superior, noting how Roadhog must have trained him well.

Then and there, Junkrat’s breathing hitched. He whimpered, his wrist jerking and twitching as he came - cum shooting in spurts onto himself, his clothes, his bunk. His murmurs turned into breathy moans, interrupted by teeth chattering as he rocketed into the electric sensation - everything clenching, washing over him in his release. A final shudder and his pace slowed. Junkrat drew one more long tug out of himself and flopped prone, twitching now in a manner typical of Junkrat outside of coitus.

“Eeeghh. I’ll get cleaned up tomorrow.” He muttered, yanked up his pants, and tossed his covers over himself.

“Gross.” Roadhog whispered.


	3. The Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat puts himself out there. Way out there.

Roadhog hadn’t gotten enough sleep. The early alarm for agents to wake and Junkrat’s intrusion the previous night had him stewing over his mug of coffee, staring into his reflection until the steam fogged up the lenses of his mask. He supposed he could snooze sitting at the mess hall table, squeezing out precious minutes of calm before hours of banal tactical meetings and repetitive mission training. But - go figure - as soon as the thought formed, Junkrat jangled and hobbled into the room. Every damn time.

“I feel alive!” Junkrat announced, reaching his limbs up to the ceiling in a sort of victorious pose that made Roadhog’s grip squeeze just enough on the mug to flex the metal. Roadhog didn’t bother to look up at his partner, but his eyes flickered to see how the rest of the agents present were reacting.

Sitting directly on the table, legs hanging off the sides, Sombra seemed to be invading the personal space of Reaper - who, upon Junkrat’s announcement, instantly disappeared into black smoke and filtered out a nearby vent. Sombra laughed out loud, swiveling now to look at the buffoon in the doorway in anticipation.

Meanwhile, Moira had looked up momentarily from her own coffee. Sitting across from Roadhog, she shifted her gaze up to him and then back to Junkrat before returning to the notes she was taking on a yellow legal pad that looked to be at full capacity with lines of tightly packed scrawling.

In the corner and still quietly humming, Sigma didn’t disengage from his sudoku puzzle book. He scratched the corner of his mouth idly, whispering number combinations to himself until he filled in a box with a triumphant nod.

Needless to say, the lukewarm reaction to his entrance was lost on the junker. He strode over to the counter and swooped up a mug, casting bizarre glances over his company before filling it with far too many theatrics.

“You may be wondering: why should we in Talon be so lucky to revel in the raw sexual energy of Junkrat, not only today, but every day?”

Crunch. Some of Roadhog’s coffee spilled out onto his hand as it crushed in his grip. Moira stopped writing, eyes drawn to the mug, brows quirked. Sombra, who had been waiting intently, nearly folded in half laughing.

“¡A la verga!” She howled. “You guys said recruiting these guys was a mistake? Ha!”

Junkrat happily filled up his mug, sloshing it about with a knowing gesture and spilling some directly onto his standard, regretfully required uniform shirt. “That’s right, you’ll have no regrets after one night shacked up with this one. Right ‘Hog?”

Silence. Roadhog wished that he was back in bed, or perhaps dead.

“So I’m offering my talents and years of carnal expertise to anyone on this base who wants a free lesson from a master of…” A pause for effect. “Lovemaking.”

For a moment, Sombra’s cackling grew, and then cut short just as suddenly. “Oh, fucking shit, he’s serious. Is he serious right now?”

Roadhog felt his face burning as Sombra and Moira turned towards him. He slowly unclenched his hand, pushing the dented metal mug away from him through the hot coffee puddle he’d created. He looked at Junkrat, who was grinning in a way so clownish that Roadhog could only assume that from his partner’s perspective, his part in this charade at this point was supposed to be some sort of testimonial of Junkrat’s sexual greatness.

“I’m going to the practice range.” With a grunt and the squeak of metal and plastic, Roadhog got up from the table.

“Sounds like he’s serious,” Moira noted. Her mouth curled into the faintest hint of a smile, and she waved to Roadhog with a flourish of her long fingers. “See you at noon for your check-in.”

With that, he was gone. Junkrat had emptied his own mug and picked up Roadhog’s partially ruined one from the table, sipping at it at an angle that made additional drips down his shirt. There was a moment of quiet, where Sigma’s enthusiastic but hushed mumbling and Junkrat’s unfortunate slurping were the only sounds in the hall. Sombra was absolutely affronted.

“Okay, no. We can’t just drop some mass proposition and then call it good. I know you, Jamie,” Sombra smirked, and Junkrat finally sneered at her when she dropped the pet name. “Something’s up. What’s the deal?”

Moira hummed. “By the looks of it, I think it’s a simple act of desperation. I’d have to do some tests, but he could have a neurotransmitter imbalance causing sexual compulsions. Perhaps Rutledge is no longer an accommodating partner, hm?”

Suddenly, Junkrat was up in arms. Now flustered as well as caffeinated, he swung his arm into a pointed finger at the doctor. “Hey! Leave ‘Hog out of this -- ” (‘You sure didn’t’ came a mumble from Sombra,’) “And uh, I’ve got plenty of neurons.”

Moira flipped over her yellow legal pad to a new page and began writing something down, to which Junkrat screeched. “Hey! Listen! I’m just sayin’ -- I’m open for business. Wide open. If you know what I mean.”

Sombra nodded slowly. “Entiendo. Estas desesperado.”

“You are starting to sound pretty desperate, Jamison,” Moira purred, taking a long sip of her coffee. “Come by my office later if you want to take those tests.”

For a long moment, both Sombra and Junkrat looked to each other, then to Moira, and back to each other. A conclusion seemed to creep onto Junkrat’s face first - from balking and defensive back to smug and knowing, with a heaping helping of buzzing energy back in his system. He grinned, and as he did, Sombra feigned gagging.

“Oh, gross! No. You mean the brain stuff, right ‘doc?” Sombra gritted her teeth as she waited for a response, that - in the true stylings of Moira O’Deorain, would be irritatingly cryptic. Instead, Moira clicked her pen and stuffed her notebook under her arm.

“Mm. I’ve got my morning meeting with Akande to attend to. De Kuiper?”

“Yes?” Sigma looked up from his book at last, seeming to finally pop into the same plane of reality that the rest of the agents were on. “Ah, good morning, Fawkes. Didn’t hear you come in.”

As the two took their leave, Junkrat gave Sombra a meaningful eyebrow wiggle. A prompt eyeroll was shot back. “She’s not going to fuck you, pendejo.”

“I beg to differ. I’m irresistible. A sexual tiger.” Junkrat cackled as Sombra’s expression distorted into complete disgust. “Anyway, spread the word. I didn’t see the sniper in here, she still around?”

“Ugh!” With a flash of purple, Sombra blinked out of existence. Junkrat stood in the mess hall, hands full with two mugs, suddenly very alone.

“Uh… Hello?”


End file.
